


shakin' (and cryin')

by collieflower



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author Projecting onto Richie Tozier, Best Friends to Strangers to Best Friends, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pining, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Stan Loves Bees, Stan and Richie are left in Derry after Pennywise, Stan gathers wild honey and Richie stands there useless and pretty, and very much pining., honeybees, i too wanna kith stanley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21568933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collieflower/pseuds/collieflower
Summary: "What, stealing and camaraderie doesn't do it for you?""No Richie." That smile was the personification of the wordsaccharine. Too sticky and sweet. The very thing you see right before you get stabbed in the chest with a candy cane fashioned into a shiv. "I'm up in a tree, surrounded by bees. I'mobviouslygetting off to the thought of you and a pocket knife right now."Richielaughed, pitching himself backwards until his back hit that godawful root he'd been avoiding. Eventually, he pulled himself together enough to stand up and wipe his eyes. "I'm not taking part in this thievery.""What happened to once a Loser, always a Loser?""How dare you hold my morals against me."
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 9
Kudos: 90





	shakin' (and cryin')

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in roughly 36 hours, i think? i'm not sure anymore im so tired. im posting this and then going the Heck to bed.

Stan had been watching it for some time, now. It was a mess of honeycomb drawn up outside of a hive, all tied up around a tree branch 25 feet up in a tree near the place Stan liked to watch for birds.

He just knew something was going to get it, and he wanted to get it before they decided that it was theirs.

And that Saturday, when his mother and father were at temple, Stan got up that morning with a purpose. It was today. He was getting that comb if he had to break an arm to do it. He took a saw from the garage, and a Mason jar from the kitchen and set out on his way.

It was the damndest thing. Richie was just standing there on the corner of Elm and Jackson, smoking a cigarette and debating whether or not it was kosher to skip town for the day when he caught sight of a plucky little Jew bopping across the intersection. He walked like Stan Uris always walked: like he had somewhere to be. That also might have had to do with the saw swinging by his side. This was strange business for Derry. Surely not the strangest, but certainly the most interesting thing Richie had seen in a good few months.

He wouldn't say _years_ , because last year Richie witnessed Becky Johnson try to steal a whole tire from Mick's Motor Repair. He'd casually walked up to her and asked her what she was doing, wheeling the tire across the parking lot like she had. She'd jumped no less than eight miles into the air, screaming. The screams alerted none other than Mick, and Becky was thoroughly questioned about the whole affair. _Oh... This old thing?_ " hadn't quite cut it, and ol' Becky J, as far as Richie knew, was banned for life from the Motor Repair.

That was entertaining, but it was also the farthest thing from Richie's mind as he jogged across the road to catch up with Stan.

"Staniel the Maniel," he burst, flipping to walk backwards with his hands shoved in his pockets. His cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, almost in danger of dropping.

Stan jerked, eyes wide as they landed on Richie. "You _dick_ , Trashmouth!" he yelled, obviously startled.

Richie rolled right over him. "What have you got there?" He reached out to pluck at the saw in his hand, trailing his fingers along the orange metal handle. "Did you finally snap? About to go axe murder some young, happy couple?"

Stan leveled him with a _thoroughly_ unimpressed look. "I thought you would have gotten funnier since we were kids," he doled out.

Snorting, Richie turned around and threw an elbow to rest on Stan's shoulder before the young man unceremoniously shrugged him off. "I'm _hilarious_ , Stanny. You know you _loooove_ me. You probably miss me so much, and watch me from across streets and in through shop windows." He batted his eyelashes at Stan. The severity of his eye roll was absolutely stunning. The kind of thing that knocks people down with the sheer force of it all. Richie thought he saw something like that on MTV once, but he could never be sure, you know. "Seriously, who're you planning on murdering with this thing?" he prompted.

"It's to dismember a body, Richie. You can't efficiently kill someone with a saw."

"Sure ya can!" he boomed, slipping into a well worn Voice he'd begun to craft. He sounded a bit like Alfredo Hitchcock grew up in Georgia and was divorced three times.

Stan looked at him in something like surprise. "Haven't heard that one before," he said.

Richie grinned. "Wanna hear more?" he asked. His voice dipped and he stepped in close.

"Absolutely not."

There was a lift to Stan's mouth, something suspiciously like a smile. Richie counted that as a win.

"Well," Richie hummed. "I'd better come with you anyway. You’re going to need someone to haul dismembered arms and heads. Who better than your ol' pal Richie?" He bumped Stan with his elbow. "Once a Loser, always a Loser, right? Personally, I thought we were going to have to bury Eds at one point, but _hey_ , he made it, right?" Richie laughed. He was walking backwards again. He took a puff of his cigarette and the smoke blew blessedly behind him, leaving Stan unmarred.

Stan considered him for a moment before squinting at him. "You're carrying it all," he said, like it was his condition that Richie come along. Richie took it readily, nodding like an overzealous golden retriever. "And this."

That was the only warning he got before a glass jar was chucked at him. He barely caught it, and he did fumble, but only for a second before righting himself and securing the jar in his grip. "Yessir, Mr. Uris, sir," he said, Voice coming as slick and smooth as maple syrup.

He let Stan lead him into the woods, and dutifully ignored any "You remember whens," like a Mom ate up with nostalgia on her children's part.

Stan bitched at him when he ashed his cigarette and flicked it aside. So Richie ground it out and stuck it in his back pocket, like he used to do with Bev's cigarettes. The phrase _old time's sake_ rested on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't dare say it. He didn't want to bring up memories when things were running smoothly so far. They fit together like puzzle pieces, clicking right where they left off on that little creek bank with their palms sliced open.

That was Stan's idea. When Richie got out of here and kicked his career in action, he was going to sue. Stan hurt his beautiful body, and there had to be retribution somewhere.

They went until the forest was deep and the air was cooler, dampened by the ceiling the tree branches made.

Richie thought that they were somewhere near the clubhouse, if a little turned around. He could find it in a hurry if he found the sewer entrance and traced his steps back. He could hear the rush of the creek not too far off.

Maybe he'd steer them back their on their way back into town. Take a detour and see if the hammock was still up, or if Bill really left his boombox down there like he said he did.

"We're almost there," Stan said suddenly, breaking Richie out of his thoughts. "See?" He pointed up, and Richie followed the line of his arm and the projected plan until he saw a large oak tree.

Richie's mouth dropped open, about to ask what the _shit_ Stanley was doing sawing down trees like this, when he heard it. A swarm of bees, buzzing their little butts off about 20 feet up off the ground.

“What the dick,” Richie deadpanned. He stopped right in his tracks, staring up at the tree. “You’re gonna saw this shit down?”

“What?” Stan squinted at him. “No. Come on.” He gestured with his bright orange tool of death. “The honey, Richie.” He pointed directly up, and Richie was able to catch a glimpse of the branch he was talking about. There was a honeycomb built about midway up the branch, looking so full it could pop. Richie’s mouth made a darling little _O_ of understanding, and Stan rolled his eyes.

Richie scrunches his nose up at them. “How are you going to get it down?”

“By climbing the tree,” Stan said, like he was particularly slow today. Hey, maybe he was. It was sort of difficult, picking up with Stan after all the years and trying just to keep up. Stan clipped the saw to his backmost belt loop with what Richie thought must have been a backpack clip, and then up he went.

Richie watched him scale the tree, and in the meantime? He sat down. Criss-cross on the summer grass, just avoiding a rogue tree root threatening to dig into his ass. He leaned back on his hands, really committing to this _man of leisure_ business.

“Don’t only crazy bees build outside of their hives?” Richie called out when Stan was nearly there. Probably not the best timing, but Stan _was_ still kicking. If he died, Richie still had the good graces to claim _I told you so_.

Stan tucked his head into his shoulder, looking back at Richie wildly. “Africanized bees,” he corrected lightly. “And they’re friendly,” he nodded up to the honeycomb, “they just don’t have a hive.”

“So you’re gonna take all their hard-earned honey, Stanley? We always said you were cold, but this is new lows.” Richie grinned at him. Stan scoffed a laugh.

He hefted himself onto a branch that put him within easy reach of the targeted branch. He looked at it with a careful eye, and then he unclipped the saw — before dropping it right to the ground. “I need your pocket knife,” Stan said. 

“How do you know I even still carry it?!” Richie demanded. He sat up, hands braced on his knees. Sure he did. It was carefully stowed in his front pocket even as they spoke.

Stan hooked his arm around the trunk of the tree and leaned out a little, staring directly into Richie’s pseudo Catholic soul. “I saw it in your pocket.”

Richie’s eyebrows jumped, and then he smirked. “Checking me out, were you, Stanny?” he groused. “I’m flattered, dahlin, but really, I’m married. Taken by our Lahd and Savyah, Christ Jesus.”

“I have never _been_ softer,” Stan told him, matter of fact.

“What, stealing and camaraderie doesn’t do it for you?”

“No Richie.” He smiled brightly, in the way Richie knew _never_ meant joy. That smile was the personification of the word _saccharine_ . Too sticky and sweet. The very thing you see right before you get stabbed in the chest with a candy cane fashioned into a shiv. “I’m up in a tree. I’m _obviously_ getting off to the thought of you and a pocket knife right now.”

Richie _laughed_ , pitching himself backwards until his back hit that godawful root he’d been dodging. Eventually, he pulled himself together enough to stand up and wipe his eyes. He braced his hands on his hips, looking up to Stan with his head on a tilt. “I’m not taking part in this thievery.”

“What happened to once a Loser, always a Loser?”

“How dare you hold my morals against me.”

“You’re not going to get stung, Rich,” Stan sighed, getting to the bottom of the whole issue with seven goddamn words. That was Stan. He was good at looking into things and knowing why they worked, what made them tense and clog up. Richie wasn’t allergic to bees, but the idea of getting 200 little stings all around his body from a bunch of angry bees wasn’t what he’d call fun date night. “You’re wearing a light color, so it won’t bother them. Just don’t move too fast, and definitely don’t swat at them.”

Richie was gonna do it, honest. He was already up and everything. Stan looking at him all soft, though, that hurt. The way Stan asked Richie to trust him, offering a dumb, useless hand — now that got him even harder.

He pulled in a tight breath, untucked his balls, and shimmied up the tree. He came up on the front side, about three feet below Stan. Beyond the bees buzzing around his hair and coming to investigate the folds in his shirt, it was an easy climb — he literally just heaved himself up a curving branch and pivot n' pulled himself higher. Stan could have easily come down and wrestled Richie’s pocket knife away from him.

Maybe the thought of wrestling Stan in the middle of the forest floor wasn’t the best thought to start dwelling on.

Instead, he dug his knife out of his pocket and slapped it into Stan’s palm.

“Thank you.” That smile was genuine. He closed his fingers around it, but reached down to Richie’s head. For a wild moment, Richie thought Stan was going to give him a pat on the head — and if he did that, Richie was going to shove him out of the tree, the bees and the honey and the potential hospital bill be _damned_.

Stan poked through his hair. “You’ve got a bee in your hair, hold on.”

Richie’s spine went rigid. “What the _fuck get it out._ ”

“Hold _still_ ,” Stan commanded sharply. “If she stings you—”

“Don’t fucking let it sting me!” He shook his hair out, and Stan knocked his knuckle into Richie’s temple.

“ _Richie_! If she stings you, she’s going to die, and then all the other bees are going to go apeshit. Let me get her out of your hair.”

Richie stilled. He rocked up to his toes and pressed his cheek against the tree to give Stan a better reach. “If she stings me, Uris, I’m blaming you.”

Stan shushed him. There was a gentle tug of hair. Richie thought he could hear a muted buzz against the sound of her sisters flying around them. And then it was gone, and so was Stan’s hand. “There. She’s gone.”

Richie propped his chin up to look at him, squinting against the sun coming in through the branches. Stan smiled at him, looking very amused at the whole situation. “So you’re not afraid of spiders making a home in your hair, but you’re afraid of bees?”

“Fuck off,” he sniffed, already finding a secure foothole to begin his journey ground-ward. “I feel like you just wanted to get your hands in my hair.”

Stan _did_ laugh at that one. “Sounds like a shower cap would’ve been pretty helpful here.”

“ _Go blow your mom_.” Richie shimmied down the tree and carefully brushed a bee off of his shirtsleeve before standing back, and holding the jar like he was supposed to.

He watched the gleam of the knife blade spring into action. Stan cut along the top, carefully avoiding any bees who came to see all the trouble.

With the delicate sells in the comb destroyed, the honey dripped. Richie watched the molten gold drip fall slowly to the ground. He was nearly tempted to go catch some of the stream on his fingers, to taste it and take in the reward for Stan’s endeavor.

He stood back and held the jar, screwing and unscrewing the lid as he watched Stan work with a concentrated twist to his face. He worked the slice of honeycomb out of its home, wiggling it this way and that very slowly. When he freed it, he flipped it upside down, holding it above his head as he, too, climbed out of the tree.

Stan landed with a soft thud, and Richie held out the jar, letting Stan bring the honeycomb home.

Stan grinned at him, bright and genuine. His hair was mussed — Richie had to scrape to remember if he always had so many curls.

He smiled like he was thirteen and they’re with friends, and there’s no one that could ever bring them down. He grins like he’s had a rush Richie hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Hell, _he_ was tempted to scale the tree, then. Maybe he’d catch that stunning glow, too.

As soon as the thought came to him, he knew it was bust. That sort of glow belonged to Stanley, and Stanley alone. He wrote his name on it, licked it just to be sure. Richie couldn’t _touch it_. And obviously, even if he could, he wasn’t sure that he should. He was sure that as soon as he tried, he would end up smote down for trying to sully something so pure.

Jesus Christ, what was this? He hangs out with Stanley Uris for the first time in four years, and he’s waxing gay poetic?

He mentally cuffed himself over the head and told himself not to be so fucking _stupid_.

“I told you you’d be fine,” Stan teased him, not helping _shit_. He twisted his hand to gather up the dripping honey, unwilling to let it fall to the dirt. And then he did the unimaginable and licked it off his fingers.

“Call that fine?” he demanded, tearing his eyes back up to meet Stan’s. “I nearly shit myself.”

“We’ve done worse.” He didn’t give any time for that to be dwelt on, because he gestured with his honey-sopped hand. “Come on.”

Richie tossed him the jar and went to grab the saw, leaving Stan singing mournful noises behind him. It probably wasn’t the best move, when Stan was still holding Richie’s knife, but he would stand by it, sure.

“Richie, god _dammit_ ,” he cursed.

“Huh?” Richie hummed absently, scooping up the saw, swinging it by his side. The bees seemed so much less intimidating now that their business was done. They hummed along, mind their own business up top, and Richie went back to Stan.

Stanley, who looked somewhat upset. He lifted the jar, drawing Richie’s eyes down. “My hands are dirty, you asshole.”

Richie shrugged. “Lick it off.” He smirked wickedly, and from the look on Stan’s face, Richie thought he was going to get a face full of mason jar. 

He was proved wrong when Stan, young man with the patience of an angel, just spun away from him, fuming silently.

A jagged shot of electricity ran through Richie’s spine, licking all the way up to his shoulder blades, twisting into the base of his skull. Seeing Stan walk away, shoulders tight had Richie wanting to vomit.

It was like a fucking film reel.

He just remembered leaving Bev in the clearing. Eddie leaving the next spring, twisted half way around in his seat while he was driven away. Ben hugging him like he was going to cry. A phone call with Bill. He could barely remember the last time he’d seen Mike around town.

He and Stan fit so well together, even after all this time. The others had fallen off, _they’d_ fallen off, but they were the same. Still here. Still Losers.

Richie was caught up to Stan before he even registered his legs moving. “We’ll stop off by the creek,” he offered. “You can wash your hands then.”

Stan nodded. It was fine enough.

A few minutes of walking and mindless babble, Richie put the saw on his arm like it was an oversized bangle bracelet, and held his hand out. “Here. Let me taste it. I need to see if this shit’s even worth all the mess.”

He took the jar with a careful grip on the lid and unscrewed the cap. Stan fell into step next to him, the pocket knife twiddling between his fingers, still open. Richie didn’t know if it was a considerate move, or it was to do with that faction in his brain that made him bite his nails when the were younger because the world was too messy, and everything was six degrees from being _okay_.

Richie dipped his first two fingers into the honeycomb, where Stan’s thumb must have dug in and made a well in the wax. They came out into the clearing, the babbling of the creek calling their main attention. Richie popped his fingers into his mouth, and holy _shit_.

“I’m never eating store honey again,” he declared around his fingers. He finished sucking the sticky sweet from the pads of his fingers and shoved Stan with his elbow. “Jesus, Stan, were you hiding all this for yourself? _What the fuck_!?”

Stan grinned at him. “I told you. Worth it.” He dipped his middle finger in too, and popped it in his mouth. There was a smear of honey just above Stan’s lip, and Richie wondered if the honey would taste any sweeter on Stan’s mouth—

Alright, buckaroo. Shut the fuck up for once in your _miserable life_.

Richie was about an inch away from dipping his whole body into the creek and never emerging again.

Even if the water wouldn’t cover him all the way, like he knew it wouldn’t.

“It’s on your face, Sloppy Stanley,” Richie told him point blank as he screwed the lid back on the jar.

Stan cursed and scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

They stood in the middle of the creek, because really, they were going to get wet crossing anyway. Stan washed Richie’s knife off thoroughly before slipping it in his back pocket. He stayed squatted when he was done. Richie could see him watching from the corner of his eye as Richie washed the honey off the jar and dried it of with the hem of his shirt.

“Why didn’t you just saw down the whole thing and run away with it?” he asked. He put the jar down, twisting it to make sure it didn’t fall in the meantime. He pushed his glasses up to the top of his head and splashed his face with a handful of water, scrubbing up and down his cheeks. He thought idly about how he needed to shave.

“They didn’t have a hive,” Stan answered him. Richie looked in his general direction, but he couldn’t see fuckin’ shit. “They need it for food. I’m going to go back in a few days. Hopefully they’ll have moved on and I can go ahead and collect the rest of the honey.

Richie nodded thoughtfully. He knocked his glasses back down to his nose, ignoring the few water droplets gathered on the lenses. “I’m leaving in a few days,” he said suddenly. “You should get me some before I go.”

Stan stilled. He picked himself up to stand. The water protested as he stepped a half a pace away. “You’re leaving too, huh?”

“Yup.” Richie sighed and scooped up the honey, re-drying the jar with his damp shirt. “To Philadelphia for two full weeks. Mom’s making me go to my grandma’s funeral.”

Stan pulled a surprised face that turned sour. “Grandma Tozier died?!”

“No, Grandma Spinelli.”

“Oh.” Stan’s chest heaved with a subtle sigh of relief. He had the distinct look of a man who had something to say and didn’t know if he should say it or not. Obviously, Richie took it upon himself to say it for him.

“She was kind of a bitch,” he put in bluntly.

It sounded like Stan’s own laugh caught him on guard. “I thought so; she hated me, but I didn’t want to say anything.” Stan wasn’t wrong. Grandma Spinelli had a strong distaste for the Urises from the second she’d met them. Richie had a strong suspicion that it had to do with the kippah Stan wore clipped into his curls.

Richie snorted, waving his hand vaguely. “No, no. Please go ahead,” he urged. “Ol’ Margerie was a goddamn piece of work.”

Stan did not go ahead, but that was pretty much expected. He went kind of quiet, holding his elbow as he thumbed at his bottom lip. “So.” He paused, frowning. He swallowed. “So you’re coming back?”

“Well yeah, Staniel,” he scoffed. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere _else_ to live.” He kicked towards Stan, splashing his ankles with a small spray of water. “Maybe I oughta live here. Gotta love the feel of water in your shoes.”

“Soggy socks get you off?” Stan guessed.

“ _God_ , you guessed it.” Richie moaned in a very good impersonation of an actress in a cheap porno tape Richie’s classmates liked to rent, squishing his toes in his socks. Stan reached across to cuff him upside the head. “I deserved that,” he admitted, his words almost drowned out in a laugh.

They climbed out of the creek. Stan clipped the saw back onto his belt loop to free up his hands. Richie told him he looked like a good ol’ boy, with his little saw and the knife in his pocket. Stan told him that if he ever called him that again, Stan would kill him and stow him in the sewer pipe.

Eventually they found the road and began to walk back into town. The sun was hot, but the breeze was fair. Stan had tanned nicely this summer, while Richie had done nothing but burn like a fucking cherry.

Richie was in the middle of watching Stan’s calves as he walked in front of him, completely zoned out when Stan actually spoke up.

“Mm. Richie. Where would you want to go? When you get out of here.”

Richie just shrugged a shoulder when Stan looked over his shoulder to him. “Fuck, I dunno,” He sighed. “The only directions are pretty much west and down, so? One of them. Maybe I’ll go up. Think I could make a good Canadian? _Oh heck, I’m sorry, eh_.”

Stan laughed at his Voice, and Richie grinned at him. “Ever thought about going to New York?” Stan asked. He made a little movement with his head, something Richie didn’t really know how to dissect. “I’m sure New York is always looking for special characters.”

_Special Characters_ was said in a patronizing tone, but it lacked the effect and the sting. It was a Voice of Stan’s own.

“Duh, of course I have. I’m not a complete recluse, Stanley. I have hopes and dreams and shit outside this hellhole. You know, pussy shit.” Stan nodded in understanding. Richie scooped to pick up a rock and chuck it off into a nearby bush. “Besides, I couldn’t afford an apartment. Not even the shitty ones where your roommates are rats and you eat from dumpsters because you’re living nickel to nickel.”

Stan made a horrid noise in the back of his throat. “I would kill myself.”

Richie hummed in a very _me too_ kind of way.

“Want a human one?”

Richie looked over to him, eyebrows lifted. He’d zoned out. “Human one what, Stanny?”

“A roommate.”

“ _Uhh_ …” He dropped off, ending in a little hum. He looked out over the road, watched a Buick take a left onto a private driveway. “Well, yeah.” He looked to Stan, but Stan had his hands jammed into his pockets, looking anywhere but Richie. He could just see a touch of red hitting his cheeks and peeking out of his shirt collar.

And then it clicked.

“Me and you?” he asked slowly, sixteen shades of stupid.

Stan nodded. “Yeah.”

“Stan Uris and I?” Richie repeated, picking up traction and speed. “Oh my God, NYC wouldn’t know what the fuck hit ‘em.” He grinned sharp, elbowing Stan in the arm. “They aren’t ready for us Derry Boys. We’ve seen too much shit, they can’t scare us.” He threw an arm over Stan’s shoulders and dragged him into his side, falling into step with him like it was nothing.

And all the sudden, they were back at it again. Uris and Tozier up against the world.

Stan’s arm wound around Richie’s waist and they stayed like that until they got closer to town.

It all reminded Richie of when they were kids, still in training diapers. He’d pulled Stan’s hair and learned he had to apologize otherwise Stan wasn’t going to be his friend. Through a soft, tearful apology from the child not even hurt, their friendship began.

It weathered new friendship additions, killer fucking clowns, and the space between friends who didn’t know why they weren’t friends anymore.

But now they were back together, and Richie would be damned if he was going to let that change.

**Author's Note:**

> here's my [tumblr](https://stansflowercap.tumblr.com/) if you send me stozier prompts, I'll quite simply die.
> 
> comment! I worked so, so hard on this fic


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